


Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

by Inconjunct



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, speculative fanfic, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inconjunct/pseuds/Inconjunct
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos ponders the mysteries of life and death in Night Vale. Cecil ponders the mystery of why Carlos won't just go to sleep, and why Desert Bluffs thinks they're so great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

Carlos was a scientist, the proper kind: the kind that wore a lab coat and used Geiger counters and spectrometers. While he had an academic interest in the more malleable sciences in the way that he had an academic interest in just about everything, he knew that his proficiency lay with collecting samples and using instrumentation to analyze them, not in exploring sociological problems. Yet, after a year of residency in Night Vale, he found himself more and more confounded by a simple and compelling fact. This curiosity, triggered by a deceased colleague’s notes, built within him until he felt he was going to burst. When cursory investigation yielded nothing, he knew the most expedient way forward would be to ask Cecil.

He also knew he had to wait for the right moment. Sometimes, their time together was dominated by talk of Steve Carlsburg and in-fighting at the PTA meetings. Other times, he was updated on Khoshekh’s doings in painstaking detail. Largely, Khoshekh’s day-to-day activities were about as diverse as the mounted deer’s head in his hotel room: both were stationary much of the time, both occasionally rotated in slow, purposeful circles. The deer’s head did not roar as Khoshekh did, but Khoshekh never emitted a purple light like xenon in a glass tube. The deer’s head didn’t eat unless he left botanical samples on his dresser, a mistake he’d only made once. Really, he was only guessing about the deer’s head eating his samples. He hadn’t seen it do anything more than rotate and glow purple, something that might be in phase with the moon… it was hard to tell. 

Carlos was getting off track, a bad habit borne of nervousness and of wanting to avoid offending his… offending Cecil. Cecil, who was curled in tight to his chest, softly murmuring a review of Carlos’ lovemaking skills as he did every time post-coitus, a private radio show with an audience of one. Carlos tried not to listen to them, because there were only so many times one could hear paeans about one’s penis without feeling intensely embarrassed. 

“Cecil? May I ask you something?” 

“What is it, Carlos?” The “beautiful and perfect” sobriquet glided into place after his name without Cecil ever saying it. 

Carlos wondered how he did that, but now was not the time. “I was just wondering. Have there been more — incidents than usual?”

“What sort of incidents do you mean?” 

Which was a fair enough question, Carlos thought. Night Vale had many different types of incidents. He’d have to be more specific. “Incidents that result in multiple fatalities? In the last year – since I’ve been here, I mean.” 

Cecil chuckled. “Oh, Carlos! Do you feel responsible for our little town’s little issue with mysterious deaths?” 

“Not particularly. I’m just wondering if this has been a – a mast year, or something of that nature.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” Cecil’s hands were wandering lower, something they did when the conversation wasn’t engaging him, or sometimes when it was. Really, Cecil’s hands didn’t seem to need an excuse. 

“Well,” he paused for a moment, taking into account Cecil’s rather – interesting public school education. “Some plants produce a lot of seeds all at once on a given year in order to ensure that their seeds will make it into the ground instead of into the belly of a hungry animal. I was just wondering if this was a year like that, but for – incidents.” 

“Oh, no. It’s been a perfectly normal year, really. Except that **you** came, Carlos.” Cecil sighed contentedly, near dozing, his hand slackening. “Beautiful Carlos,” he murmured.

Carlos’ body felt heavy with exhaustion. He was tempted to let this moment be perfect and drift off with Cecil, but his curiosity was alight and he knew he wouldn’t rest properly until it was satiated. “So then, if this was not an anomalous year, where do all the bodies go?”

“What do you mean?” Cecil asked. 

“Well, there aren’t cemeteries in Night Vale. I thought there would be at least one, but there aren’t.” 

“You haven’t mentioned this to anyone, have you?” Cecil said, still looking at him strangely.

“No. Are they forbidden by the City Council?” 

Cecil’s lips quirked derisively. “Some things don’t need to be banned, dear Carlos. We are not like the wasteful citizens of Desert Bluffs,” Carlos always marveled at the amount of contempt and fury Cecil could inject into those three innocuous syllables, “who bury their dead in decadent wooden storage containers and fill them with fluids designed to prolong the decaying process. In Desert Bluffs, they even have buildings devoted entirely to the commemoration of a deceased citizen’s interment! Can you imagine such profligacy? In Night Vale, we are friends of the environment unless otherwise mandated by the City Council.” 

“Ah, of course. I didn’t mean to offend.”

The fury was gone as quickly as it had come. “You could never offend me, Carlos.” Cecil interlaced their hands. “Sweet, beautiful Carlos. Why do you bring up the subject of Desert Bluffs’ decadent habit of entombing their corpses?”

Cemeteries were commonplace. He didn’t mention this to Cecil, he just had to say such things in his head every once in a while in order to keep a tenuous hold on life outside of Night Vale. Cemeteries were commonplace. Mountains were real. Snow was also real. “Well,” Carlos sighed. Explaining to Cecil that anything odd was happening in Night Vale was a bit like trying to explain to a fish about water. It wasn’t that Cecil failed to notice the bizarre things that happened in his beloved town week over week. To the contrary, most of the time he seemed to be the first to know whenever something happened. He just seemed to take most of it in nonchalant stride. “Do you remember my associate Erica?” 

“Was she an angel?” 

“No, no. Erica with a ‘c.’ She was an ethnographer who came here to study the history of Night Vale.”

“Well, someone should have told her mother not to name her that. Everyone’s going to think she’s an angel. It’s just common sense, like not naming a child ‘Gas Station.’ I don’t mean to sound old-fashioned, but naming conventions exist for a reason, and going against the grain is an invitation to perpetual confusion. Not that angels exist, of course.” 

Carlos knew from early on in their relationship that it was best to avoid being sidetracked. “Right, well she was Erica with a ‘c.’ Anyhow, her research centered around the census and demographics of the town, which was difficult as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“She didn’t try to get the records from City Hall, did she?”

“She did.” 

Cecil tutted, then made a sympathetic noise. “Well, she couldn’t have known, being an Outsider and all.” 

“She did manage to find the data by going to –“

“The secret basement underneath Flora’s Cactus Shop and Taqueria?” Cecil interrupted him.

“Right,” he said. 

“I used to go there when I had to do reports for civics class.” He sighed contentedly, “oh, the memories. Brushing aside bags of potting soil and fermenting carne asada to try and reconstruct a partial family tree. It was very difficult, what with all of the mandatory record burnings. Many of the reports are redacted almost completely by the city council or a vague yet menacing government agency.” 

Carlos knew this last from personal experience. Erica had left a helpful compilation of notes written in elegant calligraphy with materials not technically outlawed by the city council. It would have been more helpful if she had managed to compile more data sources on the mysterious deaths before dying mysteriously herself, but he was sure she had done her best. 

“Well, anyhow. What I wanted to ask is this. Given that the birth rate here is low even compared to other similar post-industrial towns in similar climates, and that the births seem to result in non-human lifeforms about two thirds of the time, and given that somewhere between two and four thousand people die or disappear every year, how has the population been stable for the last four decades? By my calculations, Night Vale should be almost entirely deserted. Is there a constant influx of Outsiders, like me?”

Cecil cupped Carlos’ chin. “There is no one quite like you, dear Carlos. And no, any number of outsiders coming to town is big news as I’m sure you know. I’d say we get about fifty unique visitors per year, if that.” 

Carlos frowned. “So then where do all the people come from?” 

Cecil looked at him strangely. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“If more people die than are being born, Night Vale’s population should be declining, not holding steady. So where are all the people coming from?” 

Cecil kissed his cheek. “My handsome scientist, they come from where most people come from.”

Carlos ran his hands through Cecil’s hair. In the dark, he couldn’t see what color it was. Even in full daylight, it was difficult to recall much about how Cecil looked, but he could recall tactile sensations. His hair was soft and fine. It felt almost fluffy. As Cecil made appreciative noises, Carlos made a guess: “The hospital?”

Cecil laughed. “What kind of town do you think Night Vale is?” 

Best not to answer that question. “If not the hospital, then where?” 

Cecil looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, the City Council has given me an announcement on this very subject that I am to give at tomorrow’s show. I could make you wait until then to find out.” 

Carlos let out a huff of frustration. Playful coy Cecil was not his favorite. “Or you could tell me now?”

Cecil folded like The Night Vale Youth Recreation Center, which after eight million dollars and eighteen months was washed away by a rainstorm. Much to the surprise of the Night Vale Engineer Corps, felt and popsicle sticks were not sturdy enough to withstand the rigors of Night Vale’s unpredictable weather. “How could I ever say no to such a perfect, handsome face.” He nuzzled Carlos affectionately. 

“Well as it happens, the City Council is announcing the deadline for the quarterly civic recycling drive two days from now. They picked me to announce it on their behalf instead of having a mandatory meeting where the Sheriff’s Secret Police round everyone up while they sleep and transport them to an undisclosed location. Me, can you imagine? I just feel so honored.” 

Carlos waited for more. After a few moments of silence, it became clear that’s all Cecil had to say. “What does this have to do with my question, Cecil? I’m confused.”  
Cecil looked back at him. “I share in your confusion, sweet, perfect Carlos. We have recycling drives at regular intervals throughout the year. Usually about once every six weeks.” 

“So if we have them every six weeks, why is this one special?”

“Because this one is the **deadline** for a **civic** recycling drive.” He studied Carlos’ face for a reaction. “No? Nothing?” 

A notion occurred to him. A somewhat horrifying notion. “Cecil, where do babies come from? Human babies.”

Cecil smiled at him, a teacher indulging an obtuse student. “Why, the recycling center of course. I mean, most babies do. Original babies are born the biological way at a hospital, but there are so many things that can go wrong with birth, you know.”

Carlos did know, and supposed that many more things could go awry during a pregnancy in Night Vale. “So in Night Vale, most babies come from…”

“…The Night Vale Municipal Recycling Center, yes. Whoever donates the most organic matter during a civic recycling drive gets their first pick of the babies that result! It really encourages civic pride and ingenuity.” 

Carlos felt a bit sick. “Yeah, I imagine it might. Where does this – organic matter – come from?”

“Well, we do have all of these mysterious deaths to contend with. So Night Vale’s industrious citizens whisk the corpses to the Municipal Recycling Center as soon as the catastrophe is over. The recycling process is easier if they haven’t been dead for long.” 

That made about as much sense as anything. “Cecil, is that where you were…” he wasn’t sure ‘born’ was the right word. “Is that how you came into the world?”  
“Oh, Carlos. Interested in little old me? No, I didn’t come from the Recycling Center. Now if you don’t mind, I’d better get to bed. I have to be up in a few hours to record the morning show, and I don’t like to start my day grouchy from sleep deprivation.”

As much as Carlos wanted to keep questioning him, Cecil’s objection was reasonable. He had even divulged a City Council announcement to Carlos before the appointed time Carlos was supposed to know, the penalty for which seemed to be quite severe. Cecil had reported on several loose-lipped civil servants being sentenced to some kind of punishment in a top-secret location that everyone knew to be the invisible crystal palace that hovered above the Super Dollar.  
He pulled Cecil in close to him. “Goodnight, dear Carlos.” Cecil said, so softly Carlos felt it more than heard it.

“Goodnight, _cielo._ ” As Cecil began to snore against his chest, Carlos knew one thing for certain: he had to get into that Recycling Center.


End file.
